


Ebony

by Niccolò Machiavelli (Piccolo_Machiavelli)



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, 16th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Machiavelli - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 17:50:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9196715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piccolo_Machiavelli/pseuds/Niccol%C3%B2%20Machiavelli
Summary: The piece that gave birth to a wonderful composition of music.





	

He was lost.  
Although he could not remember how long it had been since the feeling started, he was only aware of how it seemed to drag on forever. It squeezed him from the inside out, suffocating and torturing him until he was brought down on his knees, sobbing.   
Who ever knew the top could be so lonely?  
Too long he had spent fighting and subjugating. He spent his time observing the royal family, furiously scribbling in a diary at night about the flaws they had in their ruling. If they ever made a public appearance, the people would flock to them, showering them with praise, hugging them, and kissing their hands. He watched from a distance and laughed. Secretly, he envied them, but he hid it well under mass amounts of criticism and deliberately concealed hate. When the spot for power was open again and they were, as he predicted, tossed from the throne, he wasted no time in winning the race to the top. He had much to bring to Italy and his ideas were grand, promising to fix all of the flaws brought upon them by the previous rulers. The masses were unintelligent and gullible; he was able to run circles around them and trick them out of the grab. Yet he wouldn’t learn: He was too determined and desperate for recognition that he ignored suggestions made that he should desist and be content with his previous position. The other men before him were morally concerned, compassionate, and feeble-minded.  
Niccolò Machiavelli was not like any of those men.  
His family advised against it. The de’ Medici were powerful and his advisors hinted that they could soon return. Machiavelli was as stubborn as a mule. Long he had dreamed of authority. He yearned to show that his way was the best, after all, there was no one else he would listen to. All his dreams culminated in ruin and disaster.  
Which was exactly the reason Machiavelli now walked alone through the streets of Florence with no destination in mind, pondering what could have been resolved had he just-  
It was too much to think about. The sun was setting over Florence, the last few rays of sunlight peeking over an approaching cover of darkness. Few people were in the streets, but the ones who were either backed out of Machiavelli’s way when he passed or bowed to him, almost as if to ask for mercy. He paid them no attention and their pleas continued to fall on deaf ears. In the back of his mind was a sweet, soothing voice, one singing a lullaby. As faint as it was, if he focused on it, it could distract him from his demons.  
He had tried so hard to make it, and when he finally did, he lost control. What have you done? The thought overwhelmed him for a brief moment, causing several tears to leak out of his glassy eyes, but he angrily wiped them away and went back to thinking about the words to the song.   
On lonely nights, the wat’ry stream  
will float you to your distant dreams  
Machiavelli shook his head. It was all so foolish! What he had fought tooth and nail for was barely out of reach. He was ill at ease and felt a slow burn of shame spreading through his body. I give up. This is the end; I’ve learned now there is naught to be gained by tyranny.  
It vexed him to use that word. Tyranny. He would never admit himself a tyrant. But how could he not? Quick he was to instill fear in the hearts of the people. Where the Prince had attracted love, he brought fear. Never did he want those kisses or flattery. It pleased him more to have the masses on their knees, prostrating before him and begging for his favor. Machiavelli seldom showed mercy. The thought never graced his mind. He was too preoccupied with fending off nearby powers, overworking and underpaying his army, as he never did like mercenaries.   
But what else could explain the purging of his enemies? To justify his use of terror to keep in power? And to think of all those whom he backstabbed, manipulated, lied to, and cheated-  
You I’ll embrace, and may it be  
you’ll rest beyond the ebony  
And an odd shade of ebony did the sky turn. Machiavelli, although unconsciously, had left Florence at this point, remembering those whom he had wronged. A pang of regret shot through his heart. His old self was trying to come through again and was quickly suppressed. By now, he was lost in his own thoughts, and lost in the world. His feet carried him farther away from the place he once called home and led him deeper into a dark forest. Normally, he would have regained his composure and backed out of the blackness, knowing the treachery that lay within, but he was consoled by the fact that nothing he faced in there would be worse than a fate met by the executioner. Yes, he was a wanted man. They had decided in favor of a revolution and he lost everything. If the de’ Medici didn’t catch him, surely the guards would. Machiavelli knew what he faced - and deep down inside, he felt he deserved every bit of it. The forest enveloped him and wrapped him in the loving embrace no human could ever provide.  
He struggled relentlessly to recall the second verse of the song, and tears trickled down his face as the cracked voice started the lullaby over again.  
On lonely nights, the wat’ry stream-  
But why should he let it continue? Why should he deserve to be happy and reminisce of lighter times?  
will float you to your distant dreams…  
It seemed it all was a distant dream. It was a nightmare he longed to wake up from. But this was unlike any other nightmare, for this living hell was his reality. He was no child anymore, and it did him no good to dwell on ancient memories.  
You I’ll embrace, and may it be  
Machiavelli was not someone to admit that he was in need of an embrace or affection of any kind. Armed with the best weapon at his disposal, he mentally attempted to drive his demons away. They had festered over the years and become a powerful foe. It was too late this time. They tempted him to come into the darkness, and there was no way out.  
you’ll rest beyond the ebony.  
His mind was a muddled and sickly state of affairs. Although his physique had not changed much, he was tired, so tired, and searching in the darkness for the light that could lead him home. But what was home? He never made one and had none to come back to. All that existed in his eyes was the allure of the ebony and how it compelled him farther into the forest. He was lost, so unexplainably lost, and driven to the depths of despair. He needed help and everyone was beyond his grasp.  
Oh, my darling, this you know  
The voice began to sing the second verse after stumbling over the words several times. He missed it all, the nicknames, the gifts, the love he had once shared and the happiness he once felt. It was silly thinking, and he knew it. It was thundering now from somewhere above his head and the wind picked up. The trees would provide safety from the approaching storm, but little did he care. Machiavelli was lost. In every aspect, he was lost. That was what he knew.  
that I am here and you are home  
There was no one standing beside him, but an invisible hand led him deeper into the black. This was his home now, the wilds, the home of despicable creatures and savage beasts. Lightning crashed a bit farther away from the forest. He could see it lay outside, and he had almost reached the end of his journey. There was no time for dreaming. It was all in vain. If he had the chance, he would have changed everything. He frustratedly found he could not stop himself from crying. No place of worship would take him and the gods had scorned him. There was no solace for him anywhere.  
Safe, we travel ‘round the bend  
Machiavelli lost all concept of time. There was only him, the voice, and the edge of two worlds. He had become accustomed to the forest after a short while in it and had no desire to leave. Around a bend he travelled and stood on the border, stopping to take a drink from a stream. The trees would keep most of the rain off of him. He would be safe. At home. Living with animals and thriving in his self-made exile. Emotions flooded through him as he realized there was someone out there still, someone who would take him back despite his mistakes, and hold him tightly in their arms as they comforted him. They were no fox or lion. They were very much a human as he was, and they could finish the lullaby for him if he made it out. He could see them standing there on the other side, longing to dry his tears and bring him back home, to rescue him from the destruction he caused. He dashed out of the forest.  
good night, my dear, we’ve reached the end.  
There was no one standing there. Nowhere to go. He fell to his knees, sobbing in despair, uncaring of who was watching or judging him. The pain sliced through him like white-hot knives, and he had indeed reached his end.  
Just then, it began to rain.


End file.
